Dear and dead Agatha
by On-part-tous
Summary: And she's not answering anything. She's right. She's right. She was right on the Demeter. She was right all along. They played. He lost ; she won.
1. Agatha

-His fingernails strum the glass table. He doesn't know what he's waiting for. Frozen, he is unable to face his own reflection.

When he came out of the water towards this promised land and miraculously saw before him Agatha alive and breathing, a wave of euphoria had washed over him.

He had come to terms with the idea of her death : a death that had cost him. A lot.

But to see her alive in front of him had brought him sincere joy. Agatha, Agatha. You'll never leave me in peace.

What a disappointment to smell on her the perfume of another soul, of another human being. Same voice, same face: but no trace of his favorite sister in the eyes of this apparition. What a cruel prank of genetics.

In a mere second all his hopes had collapsed in on themselves; it was when he figured out that it wasn't her, that she was dead and definitively so, that he realized his own prophecy.

When, through that stupid circle, on the Demeter, he had whispered to her: I will miss you, terribly.

He could feel her in his head. He felt her in his blood. Like a barely audible presence, a trace of her. How frustrating.

His fingernails were strumming again.

On the glass table in front of him lies a cream-colored manila folder. The autopsy of Agatha Van Helsing, found drowned a few miles from here. A 120-year-old autopsy, written with a feather. So much hassle, hands and fangs, to get it.

And now that he's got it, he doesn't dare to open it.

"Agatha, Agatha, till the very end you will have stood up to me."

He barely realizes it when he talks to her.

"I'm the stubborn type."

"I know that."

She's here. Not really there. He feels her presence, hears her voice in her thick accent. He's had her, sucked her up, eaten her. Capricious Agatha; sometimes she responds to him, and sometimes she doesn't.

"Count Dracula, be logical. There is nothing in this report that you don't already know; why do you put so much importance in it?"

He hears her as if she is leaning over him, and drinks a little from his glass to regain his composure.

"Disgusting."

He laughs dryly at the nun's comment, and raises his cup.

"You were much better."

"You're avoiding my question."

Even dead and buried, she is still bitter. He rarely converses with his victims. But he drank so much of her, and she's so stubborn.

"Doesn't it strike you ? Isn't strange to know that what's left of you is in those scraps of paper?"

"You're doing it again."

He drinks and crosses his legs.

That's right, he is. He's avoiding it. He received it yesterday; and instead of reading it, he bought a new suit, learned Mandarin ( thanks to a delicious woman ), in short: made himself busy so as not to face it. But it's daylight, he's finished all his procrastination. No more excuses.

"No more excuses."

"Get out of my head, Agatha."

"You're the one who put me there."

How to respond to that logic.

His glass is empty. So he bends over, and delicately opens what's left of his beloved nun.

He instantly regrets it. Sketches accompany the report. He recognizes her hands, her eyelids, the curve of her neck. He goes through it all, quickly.

Words flash.

Tortured.

He closes the stupid file with rage.

"The report is a bunch of crap. Wait till I find the descendants of those idiots."

Agatha's not answering.

"How can you defend such idiots?"

He gets up, annoyed. Annoyed by her silence. Always something to say except when he talks to her.

He takes the report, and throws it into the fire that burst out suddenly in the narrow fireplace.

And when he turns back to the big table, for the first time since he came back, he sees her. Standing there in her nun's habit, just as he left her on the deck of the Demeter. Her hair untied, lips and hands ruined. The agony suits her.

He's silent, they look at each other.

"You never cease to be surprising."

"What word disturbs you, Count Dracula?"

He sees her eyes blazing. It's reassuring to see her exist, even briefly.

"Tortured ?"

Her accent makes the word rougher than it already is. He approaches the table, faces her. It's never happened before, to see or hear so much of an absorbed soul. A matter of character, perhaps ?

"For example." he concedes.

"Or the rest?" she walks around the table to stand in front of him. Her bright eyes are hollowed out. She's inside him. Knows what was between the pages.

"Dehydrated ? Lacerated skin ? The water in my lungs ? Do you know that drowning is the most painful way to die, Count Dracula ?"

She's getting closer.

"The water that fills the body, that chokes the brain. The terror, the heaviness, the consciousness that won't shut off, then finally the brain drowns and the lungs explode. It's not instantaneous at all. You made that last, too."

He crosses his hands, lacing his fingers.

She puts a hand on her own neck, taping the rope marks around her throat. Ah. He almost forgot.

"And I've been through very little really, I am not equal to the martyrs of my religion, Count Dracula, but I do not find the term tortured particularly excessive."

"You played, and you lost, Agatha."

"I'm not some poor little sheep you've frightened, Count. And I regret nothing. I ask you as a scientist, do you find the term tortured excessive ?"

"You're not a scientist, you're a nun."

"I was, Count. I'm not a nun anymore, I'm nothing. I am dead. And you feel guilty."

"Well, look at that." He raises his head, licks his lips.

Agatha raises a finger, her eyes light up, and she smiles, almost cruelly.

"You are a child who has broken his toy and realizes that he will never be able to fix it."

How he hates these moments of lucidity.

"You're not a toy, you're an opponent."

"I don't care what you call me Count. I'm dead, and you realize too late that there is no way back from that."

She looks so real. He raises one hand. They're so close, he imagines her smell so clearly.

He raises his eyebrows, barely smiles and puts a finger against her neck. Barely a touch of the skin before Agatha dissolves into the air, with a laugh that sounds a little fake. Her condescending tone is absolutely unbearable.

She is silent, disappears, leaving him alone with the crackling of the fire. He doesn't feel guilty. But she's not completely wrong. Having believed in her resurrection made a biting impression on him, followed by his disappointment.

He turns to the fire and waits for the feeling to pass.

It doesn't.

"If you had given me the chance, I would have made you my bride."

His tone is accusatory.

And she's not answering anything.

She's right. She's right. She was right on the Demeter. She was right all along. They played.

He lost ; she won.


	2. Miss-me-?

"It's not me."

"I know, Agatha."

He barely whispers.

Zoe's room is a dreadfully boring place. A utilitarian room. The doctor sleeps on her back, one hand on her chest. Her regular breath is the only one that resonates.

To the right of her bed, a bottle of pills and a glass of water. Her apartment is so empty : a hotel room would have been more personal.

Standing at the end of the bed, Dracula observes. Seeing in the dark had never been a problem.

When she talks, when she moves, when she looks at him; he knows. He knows it's not Agatha, his Agatha.

But when she sleeps, with her face relaxed and her eyelids closed: it's her. The scattered hair on the pillow, the oversized top similar to her ancestor's habit. Almost exactly a vision of Agatha Van Helsing when she lay unconscious on her bed in the Demeter.

Agatha, at last, the Agatha in his head, stands at the woman's bedside, and though they are close in age, the difference in confidence is glaring.

"The poor child."

Ah. Agatha's sentimentality.

She's dying, her blood stinks.

"Leave her in peace."

"I don't bother her much."

"She is not me, Count Dracula."

"I know, Agatha, I read your lovely autopsy yesterday."

He turns, kneels down beside her. Zoe has a different smell, a different taste. But she looks so similar. He has the unpleasant sensation of facing his guilt. A counterfeit of the one who had been his best opponent, of the one who could have been his best bride.

"I would never have been your bride."

"You're an exhausting ghost."

"I'm not a ghost, I'm a reminiscence."

He rolls his eyes at such spirited contradiction.

Zoe moans turning around. The sister puts a ghostly hand on her forehead.

He really is trying to empathize with dear Dr. Helsing. But she has the defect and quality of a familiar face. His interest in her boils down, and he knows it, to this. Interest. No matter how hard he tries, or how much he plays with her, it's not up to standard.

In this modern world, he has the same ease at defeating all men as in the old one : so fast that he doesn't even remember their names.

"Doesn't it make you sick, Agatha? Knowing you died, but I've come back?"

"How many lives did mine save in 123 years of sleep?"

She's got an easy line. Today, she answers a lot.

"Your life is worth much more than that."

"You shower me with surprising compliments for a man who failed to hang me."

He clicks his tongue and opens his arms as a sign of innocence.

"Don't be ridiculous: I would have slit their throats while you were suffocating, then I would have cut the rope and kept you with me."

"I prefer hanging, thank you."

She raises her eyebrows when she utters those words, a half smile on her face.

Zoe twists, a deaf complaint stops their exchange. Agatha softens and straightens up, a sorry look in her eyes.

The scientist's time is running out. Tick, tock. Her own clock has already been broken for a century and twenty-three years: but she can still feel remorse.

Dracula no longer looks at Zoe; he stares at Agatha. She is so realistic: as annoying and yet charming as he has always known her to be.

She feels his gaze. She is in his head, she feels everything. You will be a part of me, he promised her. She was.

"Do you miss me, Count Dracula?"

Her tone oscillates between snide and soft.

"The land is much easier to conquer without you."

"Do you miss me, Count Dracula?"

"I just answered you."

"No, you dodged it."

"Mortals are far less competitive than you are. I have to lower the bar a little, or I'll accidentally become king of the world before the year is out."

"Please respond. To. My. Question."

He can't answer it; has no idea. He has an unpleasant feeling, a need to see her, to drink her that he has never felt before. And immense frustration at not being able to satisfy his desire, he who always wants everything, right away. Between her and her damn drowning, and her look-alike and her damn cancer.

It's torture.

He stares at Zoe and doesn't answer.

She's the one who breaks the silence

"When you reach an answer, call me."

And like a shadow, she disappears. The sensation starts again: in truth, the sensation from the beach doesn't leave him anymore.

It should break Zoe's neck. Save them both a lot of pain.

Instead, he puts his hands in his pockets and walks out without a sound.

Agatha's sulking? That's perfect. There's enough humans on earth. He'll find one. Who won't be an annoying and dead nun.

All this fuss has made him hungry.

That damnable feeling won't leave him.


	3. The-Demeter

-The wind's barely blowing, it's a beautiful night. The Demeter breaks the waves, Agatha smells delicious.

It's a real delight to him that she understood about cabin number nine. Until the end, until the last minute of their game, it had been fun, frenzied and merciless. She was perfect all along.

"Why are you making conversation with me?" He asked her with both hands on the bar. And that's the end.

She looks very peaceful, his dear nun, for a woman whose life is measured in minutes. How he'll miss her. It's been such a fun week.

"It's what people do."

Ah, but Agatha. You're not people.

You've proven that to me over and over again.

"You're not."

"It's never too late to change."

The black humour of this sentence makes him smile, and forget for a moment the smell of blood that embalms the boat.

"Rarely have I known you so loquacious. Are you trying to distract me?"

His voice is tinged with an audible smile, which falters a bit in front of the quiet confidence of his travel companion.

The sea no longer seems so calm to him.

She moves forward with a sure step.

"What did you tell me at the convent? Ah yes, that's it."

She's so close, he can smell all of her in one breath. Listens to her so attentively that the air seems to become solid.

She comes very close, her chin raised high. So proud.

"One should never rush a nun."

One second passes. He laughs about it.

The boat explodes. He doesn't laugh anymore.

And when he pushes her against the deck to wring her neck, the nun has a smile so big, so fine and so burning with satisfaction that he freezes.

I'm going to kill you Agatha, that's one too many, the game was over. Her neck is so frail in his hands, and yet she smiles. So human, yet invincible.

"Go ! I won."

He never has. Might as well hate. Somebody.

"The last thing your eyes will ever see—-"

He never has. wanted to. hurt. Anyone. So. deeply.

"is the disgust that overflows from mine."

But he has never been so impressed.

His hands clasped her neck, her face, he felt her suffocate; and she kept smiling. He squeezes a little harder; her smile widens.

And finally he lets her go, leaves her on the deck, and jumps back to his last earthen box.

He swims down. But he can't see the water, or the boat.

He can't see anything but a big smile, overshadowed by her eyes screaming with satisfaction.

———————-

He's closing the chamber. He's burned: exhausted. Agatha's exhausted him.

It's a thought that stirs up that admiring anger.

The box slowly sinks into the water; above him, the burning Demeter projects a clear light to the bottom of the ocean.

He locks himself in, and seals himself in safety.

Through the gaps in the wood, he sees fire, a candlestick, dolls. Oh, that's right: the cargo.

So many dolls. Little blondes in pink dresses, little brunettes in blue dresses, little redheads in green dresses.

And a tall brunette in a nun's habit. He squints and observes. The darkness is not a problem.

Funny doll when she dies, Agatha Van Helsing.

Her hair floats around her like a halo, and she falls elegantly to the bottom, a huge smile still on her lips. From here he can see both her eyes open, as he can see her consciousness slowly fade away. Bubbles of air come out of her nose, out of her mouth. And still she smiles.

That's how she dies, he thinks to himself as he lies down. Agatha Van Helsing. Alone, ignored, a piece of flesh, of good flesh, at the bottom of an ocean. Unknown even to those whose lives she saved.

Misunderstood till the end.

He sees her eyes close.

It is his sign of respect, to let her die. Her last trick. He's exhausted. Away from the new world.

She dies.

Who else would he play such a beautiful game with?

She blew up the ship. She chose this death.

He closes his eyes; useless, her smile doesn't leave him, her image playing on eyelids.

Agatha dies. Agatha dies. Agatha dies, and it's not even him who kills her.

She played well. Really well played. But she lost.

Or did she win?

He can still hear her.

"I won!"

His voice so clear to his ears. You didn't win Agatha.

But you didn't lose.

He opens his eyes.

She didn't lose. He didn't win.

So if I don't die... Neither will you. We've got one more set to play. God will get you back another day. Tonight, you are for me.

His fist smashes through wood without any difficulty. In less than a second, he has Agatha in his arms, and in less than three, they burst the surface.

He feels her ribs under his robe as he pulls her to shore. She doesn't weigh much. He hauls himself up to the land of the new world, and lays Madame Balaur down. The thought of that name would probably make him laugh in any other time.

The grass is fresh, and he's pissed.

Mad at himself, mad at her.

He puts her down on the ground and kneels down beside her.

He doesn't even have to press on her rib cage: she turns and coughs, once, twice, ten times. Less and less water accompanies her spasms, and her two clenched hands tear out lumps of earth. Her hair sticks to her face and shoulders. He hears her breath.

If paradise looks like this, it's not worth the detour, she must think.

Agatha, how hard it is to kill you! Even with whole ocean it is difficult.

He looks at her, leaning against a maple tree, hands in his pockets. He discerns her shoulder blades when she coughs, and when she looks up, there is no trace of a smile on her lips or in her eyes. Rather a mixture of surprise, disgust and rage.

He smiles in front of her as he sees her understand. Looking at the boat, her own hands, and understanding. That's right, Agatha. We weren't finished yet. And there was no way I was going to let you win with a little powder.

"You've got me... "

She's searching, can't find the rest of her sentence.

"I think the word you're looking for is 'Thank you,' Agatha."

He has a voice full of mockery, and reaches out a hand to help her stand. She grabs it reluctantly. Ouch, her nails are damaged. We'll have to do something about that.

She wobbles, he politely keeps her hand. The new land is full of promise. Agatha is full of promise too, of a different kind.

All in his thoughts, he doesn't see the nun grasping his shoulder. By reflex, he grabs her by the hip as if to start a dance.

He should make her dance here, under the moon, in the new world. He should make her waltz while the corpses of the passengers float ashore. She's a smart, lively, cultured woman. Someone of his level. Almost.

He should keep her.

Make her his bride.

Their faces are almost touching; he could kiss her.

"No" Cuts off the sister's voice.

"No ?"

No to what? He didn't say a word. He frowns and scans her features.

He sees her face harden. He still feels her hand in his own, the other on his shoulder. Always sees her chapped lips up close, even feels her breath. She smiles under the moon, radiating a smug insolence.

"Even if it had been so, Count Dracula, I certainly would not have let you kiss me."

"Passed like that?"

"You went to get your box, you locked yourself in it."

"I know, Agatha, it happened ten minutes ago."

His smile goes down as hers goes up.

"Of course not, Count Dracula, it happened 124 years ago. Or rather it didn't happen. You locked yourself in your crate like a dog goes to the kennel, and I drowned."

A fresh wind sweeps her hair, sends her smell up his nose. The salt of the sea, the taste of her blood, the cheap soap lent by the captain. He no longer smiles: his black eyes stare at her, his hands still holding her.

"I died that night. And you know it. Then wake up."

"I don't sleep."

He feels it, feels the warmth of her body, the roughness of her damaged palms.

"You're not sleeping, you're dreaming."

He smiles, raises a hand to caress her cheek condescendingly.

"My dear Agatha. Vampires don't dream."

She tilts her head and squints. She has always had an overly expressive face.

When she answers, his hand always against her face, he feels the folds of her eyes against the pads of his fingers when she smiles.

"You are dreaming because you are biting yourself, Dracula."

———-

His eyelids open suddenly. It takes him a second to realize where he is. Hard, compact earth, smell of chrysanthemums, night, insects, silence, no one.

Where has he landed again?

His head hurts like hell, and his Dior shirt is up to his elbows. Two deep red spikes decorate his wrist.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. You've got to be kidding me.

He grunts in annoyance as he rubs his forehead. He, who thought, in five hundred years, he had exhausted all the first times.

A large block of marble to his right helps him up. The moon takes its place again, and bright rays strike his hand. His hand and the stone.

An old grey stone, bumpy, fragmented in places but clean. No flowers. A grave.

A cemetery.

He laughs, laughs his lungs out as he realizes he's in a bloody graveyard.

He laughs and laughs. Then his eyes fall on the engraved black lettered name. A particular name from Holland. And he stops.

And that name craved into the stone and his wrist, make him realize that he has a big problem.

So he walks away, without looking back, looking for a way to get the name on the stone out of his head. To remove himself of the ghost of Agatha van Helsing.


	4. The-covent

-p"So that's what I should have done? "/p

p /p

pHe's whispering to himself, but he senses that she's listening. His footsteps make the snow crunch, the village they're walking through is deserted. /p

p /p

p"Perhaps it is. That's what you wish you'd done, anyway. "/p

p /p

pShe walks next to him, leaves no trace on the spotless carpet of white./p

p /p

pThe sun barely sets. The purple light strikes against the old brick houses and heavy wooden doors. He remembers the path./p

p /p

pWhy is he here? What nonsense. /p

p /p

pLucky for him, this little village near Budapest hasn't changed much. He has the feeling of returning to a pleasant past. The dilapidated houses, the silent bell tower, the badly pruned trees. /p

pHis cloak rustles against the ground, then falls silent when he stops in front of the heavy wrought iron gate. Incredible how he remembers every detail of this convent. The colour of the stones, the broken window on the second floor, the uneven floor. /p

pAnd the taste of Agatha's blood, of course. /p

p /p

p"You must have felt so, so powerful behind that gate. "/p

p /p

p"You have no idea. "/p

p /p

p"I drank your blood. Believe me, I have a very clear idea. "/p

p /p

pHe can still feel it against his tongue the taste of her jubilation, her ferocity, her pride, her curiosity, all the nectar he drank greedily. /p

p /p

pHe was invited once so he passes now through the gates without any trouble. They're rusted, corroded, eaten away by dampness and lack of maintenance. In fact, the convent seems on the verge of collapsing in on itself. Never restored. Barely cleaned. It almost still smells of blood. /p

p /p

pPlaces of massacre are good real estate investments, though. /p

p /p

pHe's breathing in the cold air. /p

p /p

p"Aaaah. Our first meeting, Agatha. "/p

p /p

p"Are you nostalgic?" She's got an ear to ear smile hanging on her lips. /p

p /p

pThey exchange glances. /p

p /p

p"It's a good memory. "/p

p /p

pHe has a brief vision of Agatha's knife against his lips, the early evening humiliation, the triumphant voice of the nun, and he corrects himself. /p

p /p

p"All in all... "/p

p /p

pIt inspires the smells of this gigantic tomb. Thirty-seven sisters just for him. What a feast. /p

p /p

pHis nails scrape the stone, and he takes the stairs to his right. An ancient workshop crypt, Agatha, your bad-girl side comes out. /p

p /p

p"You were a poor nun, Agatha. "/p

p /p

p"It was a default choice. " /p

p /p

p"That or housewife, what's the difference?"/p

p /p

p"I'd rather belong to a God than to a man."/p

p /p

pHe smiles and squints at her sharp remarks. God has the advantage of not having a solid envelope. /p

p /p

pAgatha's ghost allows him to forget the reason for his coming. Because Count Dracula experiences a feeling that does not please him, not at all. /p

pIt sticks to him: he can drink, keep himself busy, dance all night, nothing to do. /p

pAgatha./p

pHe can't get rid of her, he can't bring himself to want to. He doesn't even want her to leave. /p

pImpotent./p

p /p

pThe first - and only - time it happened was here. In this convent, in front of this sister with so little liver. /p

pHe feels like an idiot. He feels like an idiot because he feels, he knows he's missing something. He's never spoken so clearly to one of his victims before. Never had the opportunity to observe them as he's observing Agatha right now. He has her on the tip of his tongue. But London doesn't reveal him anything. /p

p /p

pSo he makes his way back; from the convent to the shores of the new world. With her./p

p /p

pHe pushes the door of the workshop: a cloud of dust comes out of it. How long's it been since anyone's been in here? /p

p /p

pThe small skylight diffuses the first rays of the moon, and highlights the office. There are no more notebooks, no more notes, no more jars full of formula. Probably at the Harker Foundation./p

pA quick thought of Zoe./p

p /p

pOn the other hand, there's still her pens and inks. He caresses a black spot on the wood with his fingertip. /p

p /p

pAgatha wanders behind him, her eyes filled with a nostalgia that she refrains from showing. /p

p /p

p"You can't imagine the time I've spent here. " /p

p /p

pHe leans against the desk, lets her talk. It's a place of great importance: one of the nodes of their rivalry. /p

p /p

pShe seems perfectly at ease here, looks out the skylight, inspects the room. She's left everything there. Barely finished sentences, open bottles of ink. The corpses of her sisters. /p

p /p

p"You see, the last traces of me weren't in a paper file. They're here. They're everywhere I've ever been. "/p

p /p

pShe points the stain at the desk with a smile and looks up to the sky. /p

p /p

p"I did that one when Mother Superior came to snub me! I was so concentrated that I had missed morning prayers. "/p

p /p

p"What were you studying? "/p

p /p

p"Greek. "/p

p /p

pHe's clapping his hands. Delicious Agatha. Greek. /p

p /p

p"So getting on the Demeter must have been a real drag. "/p

p /p

p"I didn't like the irony. " /p

p /p

p"Aaaah, but you understood it, Agatha."/p

pHe turns to her and her smug look on her face. Brilliant Agatha van Helsing. /p

p /p

p"Of course I understood her, Count Dracula. Take your pantry up to the Demeter. Name of the Greek goddess of the harvest, and therefore, of abundance. "/p

p /p

pHe smiles, uncovers the teeth. It's a real pleasure not to make his puns for himself anymore. He has had five hundred years to cultivate himself: and it only took Agatha forty years to learn Romanian, English, Greek, science and himself. /p

p /p

p"My humour doesn't have much effect on you. "/p

p /p

p"It's just that it is not very subtle. "/p

p /p

pHe doesn't answer anything, leaves her this sleeve not without some annoyance. He walks up to her. Face to face, they observe each other. He remembers how thirsty he was that night, even after all the sisters. He was thirsty for the blood he had glimpsed. /p

p /p

p"You bit me. What happened next? " /p

p /p

p"I've tasted you. " he corrects. As he restrained himself so that she might live. She laughs and makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. /p

p /p

p"Well, let's say. You've tasted me. What's next? "/p

p /p

p"Then, when you fell asleep--"/p

p /p

p"Fainted. "/p

p /p

p"When you fell asleep, I lifted you up, and brought you back to the inn where my trunks were waiting for me. I laid you down on the bed, and arranged the formalities for the Demeter. I had to take Johnny there, anyway. All I had to do was change the name."/p

p /p

p"Mrs. Balaur. "/p

p /p

p"It fits you so good. "/p

p /p

p"You know it was a close call for them to mark that on my grave. " /p

p /p

pHe laughed, and he held the door for her to get out first. Gentleman. She goes upstairs first, they leave the spot. /p

p /p

p"It would have been a pleasure for me to have--"/p

p /p

pHis sentence gets cut, and he stops in the middle of the stairs. Agatha also stops, a few steps higher, a haughty smile on her lips and her head held high. /p

pWhat an idiot he is. How long has she understood ? And how, more importantly, did she understand before he did?! /p

p /p

p /p

p"That's it? Did you understand, Count? Did you finally? I've given you a lot of clues, though. I thought you were sharper. " /p

p /p

pHe climbs the steps that separate them slowly, eyes glued to her own, until he reaches her height. /p

p /p

p"Agatha... "/p

p /p

pHe devours with his eyes her face, her hollow cheeks, her spilt lips, her loose hair. He reads on her features, he who has never paid attention to the souls of mortals. /p

p /p

pSelf-sufficiency, defiance, mockery. But also sorrow, anger and resignation./p

pThey remain like that for several minutes. And finally, he puts words to what has escaped him until then. /p

p"Agatha. It's you, Agatha. "/p

pShe smiles.br /

He is right./p


End file.
